Pinch in Time
by Aki4
Summary: Finally, chapter six arriveth. More of Pickle, less of Carrot, and Here there be Schoolteachers.
1. That Time of the Month

Somewhere in space, the Great Star Turtle A'tuin trawls slowly through the universe, surrounded by a seemingly infinite sea of freezing darkness and the distant light of stars. Some stars are not so distant, and their fires are reflected in the unfathomable depths of those ancient eyes. Its limbs are rimed with the hoarfrost of millenia, and the skin is pocked by meteors. There is the tiniest of fractures--a mere few miles long--on its shell which marks the demise of a small, unlucky moon. Even the four elephants who stand upon the shell, upon whose backs the Discworld slowly spins, look as if they've been around the cosmos a couple times. But nothing has ever stopped its patient tread towards whatever destination this astral body has in its chelonian mind.  
  
A magnificent sight, and one most unique. Thus it seems even stranger that, if one were merely to lift up the corner of the rubber sheet of the Universe, one might find not one, but countless more A'tuins making their way through equally vast reaches of space, some perhaps with even different destinations. This, if it could but be perceived, would be the multiverse-- an infinite string of universes* where every possibility, every potential outcome was explored.  
  
It was precisely this that was about to be irrevocably changed.  
  
* Including one where the Great A'tuin was a walrus.  
  
................................  
  
The Watch was no place for a man who liked peace. Tedium and paperwork, yes, but peace? A month as the average law enforcement officer was bound to be twenty-nine days of routine and one day of sheer chaos, but you never knew which day it would be. And the crime rate in Ankh-Morpork was far from the average, although it certainly contributed to it. After its reorganization in recent years Watchmen had given up on the old cry of "All's Well!" because the more sensitive officers took offense at the derisive hoots that usually followed.  
  
After a few catastrophes had threatened the city (which was routine) and the Watch had gotten involved (which was not), the force had swelled. Nowadays, when asked "Why did you join?" new recruits sometimes gave a different answer than the traditional "It was this or death/disgrace/dismemberment. Err--sir." Occasionally one, generally a bit on the weedy side and and so wet behind the ears that they dribbled down his neck, would say with a suspicious gleam in his eye, "I was looking for a little excitement, sir." He always did his best to make sure that gleam was knocked out by the dullness of disillusion as quickly as possible. Nearsightedness, a limp, slow reflexes--any of these could work to a man's disadvantage in action, but that gleam would get you killed nine times out of ten. It was a sort of nearmindedness.  
  
Commander Vimes of the Ankh-Morpork City Watch didn't believe in looking for excitement.* Even so, he'd had his fair share (and probably someone else's) of mortal danger over the years. He had survived dragons, more attempted assasinations than there were consonants on a map of Poland, and years on a diet that made grease look healthy in comparison. He'd tangled with trolls, dueled with dwarves and wrestled werewolves, and if there'd been a word that started with V meaning "to be engaged in a life and undeath struggle" he'd probably done that with vampires. He'd been shot, stabbed, bitten, burned, drowned and even promoted, but nothing had frightened him quite as much as Angua did lately. The vibes she'd been putting out certainly made his workplace more Exciting, in the sense that it suddenly felt like a very dangerous place to be.  
  
Constable Angua had been someone's Brilliant Idea: Put two minorities in the Watch in one body. And in a way, it was brilliant. Although by now word had got out that there was a werewolf in the Watch (this sort of thing was hard to keep quiet, and in any case information tended to find Nobby's head a tight fit and always tried to squeeze out through his mouth), not every criminal had the foresight to carry scent bombs. Many a case had been solved by a little "plain-clothes" work and a sniff or two; "Closed by the nose" they were starting to write on the reports. As a bonus, her gender was obvious without close inspection and rather embarrassing inquiry (unlike the female dwarf Watch, err, persons). This helped to dispel the image that the Watch was composed solely of testosterone and the smell of unwashed laundry, and incidentally bolstered the number of new recruits reeking of both.  
  
Two birds with one stone. Brilliant indeed, except that both birds could probably eat you alive for one week every month. And right now, as he watched her pacing restlessly behind her desk, shaking her head rapidly every few steps, he knew which bird was hungry, and it wasn't the one you could stop with silver bullets.  
  
"Erm," he ventured.  
  
She stopped. "Sir?"  
  
"Do you think you could stop that?"  
  
"Stop what?"  
  
"Never mind," he sighed. "Look, if there's something on your mind--" he cut off the rest of the sentence, partly because he couldn't imagine how he could end it without regretting it, but mostly because she'd suddenly gone quite still. When he'd spoken she'd merely stopped pacing, but now her entire body was taut. Morphologically speaking it was impossible, but he was sure she'd pricked her ears. "Send him into my office when he comes in, will you? I wanted to ask him about the recent burglary down by the docks."  
  
She whirled. "How do you know that I was waiting for Carrot? What makes you think that I'm listening for him? Why does everyone think that just because we're--" she cut off as she saw the eyebrows rising, and muttered "Yes sir."  
  
He climbed the stairs to his office with as much speed as he thought could still fall under the label of "efficiently walking" as opposed to, say, "terrified fleeing." Lately the air was so charged around her that he'd stopped smoking in the main room. It got even worse when the subject of Carrot came up, or down, or lurked anywhere near a conversation. It had gotten to the point that everyone was afraid to mention him around her, but did so anyway because they had a feel that NOT mentioning him would somehow be even more fatal. Had it been anyone else he would have assumed a lover's quarrel, but quarreling with Carrot took more resourcefulness than sculpting with Jell-O and twice as much tenacity. He had yet to see it done.  
  
He stepped into his office with a sigh, cigar already moving to his lips. He hated to get involved in their personal lives. Personally he felt that you never stopped being a Watchman, no matter your hours, but at least off duty you were technically free to be a fool. On the other hand, this was bad for morale. Even Detritus had started to sweat around her, and as he had no glands that was no mean feat. Clearly a talk with Carrot was in order. He just wished he knew what he'd say.  
  
Presently the door downstairs opened and Carrot's cheery tones of general inquiry sounded through the floor. He might not be loud, but by the gods, the man's voice could carry. He could hear nothing from the other end of the exchange, but Carrot said, "Certainly, I'll do that right now. Are you going home soon? Would you like me to walk you back? Oh. Well, Cheery told me about this lovely little cafe close to the docks, she said she could barely smell the river. So if you're hun--oh. Well, tomorrow then!" He marveled at the sheer undaunted pluck in that voice. It sounded like it could march through an ocean and come out barely damp.  
  
"Come in," he said, as the floorboards indicated that Carrot was about to knock. Carrot Ironfoundersson, Captain of the Watch, marched to his desk. Carrot could punch like a rocket, climb like a monkey, and dive and roll like a porpoise, but couldn't quite seem to get the hang of moving casually. Initially he'd gone around with his shoulders stooped (the product of living in a cavern built for people who came up to his hipbones), but even then he'd projected an image of striding. He couldn't seem to saunter or stroll, and as for sneaking--Vimes had seen him try to sneak once, and it hadn't been pretty.  
  
"Captain Carrot, reporting as requested, sir."  
  
"Captain, it has come to my attention that...well..." He stalled, and resisted the urge to drum his fingers.  
  
"Sir, if this is about the burglaries, we found out who was behind them."  
  
Vimes straightened up. This was something he could handle. "You found him? How? Have you arrested him?"  
  
"We arrested one of them. He asked us to, actually."  
  
"One of them? Have you found the other one?"  
  
"We did. Actually, the burglar did. In fact, that's when he asked us to arrest him." Carrot coughed in a manner indicating professional embarrassment. "The Thieves' Guild seem to have gotten to him first, sir."  
  
He sighed. "Did they leave enough of him to identify?"  
  
"Well, no, but they did leave a business card, so I imagine if you really wanted to know, sir..."  
  
"Never mind, that won't be necessary." The lower classes of Ankh-Morpork were like rats. They were dirty and bred in the shadows, and no matter how many were killed they inevitably manage to fill in the ranks. In fact, they were slightly less welcome than rats, in that if every last one of them disappeared no dwarves would be upset. "But on another topic, Captain...ahem...I feel that perhaps it would be good if you...if I...if..the men are..." His voice died of shame in his throat.  
  
"Sir?"  
  
He rallied for one more attempt. "Carrot, I feel there's been some tension lately between you and Constable Angua."  
  
"Tension? She hasn't said anything to me about it, sir."  
  
I just bet she hasn't, Vimes thought to himself. If there was one thing he'd learned since marrying Lady Ramkins, it was that the things women didn't say were often more dangerous than the things they did. "Nevertheless, I'm going to be blunt and ask. Is something wrong? Because if there is, it's my job to make sure that the Watch runs smoothly, regardless of...personal affairs." Not bad, he thought, he'd muttered the last bit and there was no doubt that Sybil would've done a better job of it, but not bad.  
  
Carrot flushed, and pulled himself even further upright. "Sir, I had no idea that my performance had slipped. I'll redouble my efforts." "No, no! You've been fine." It's everyone else who's spooked, he added mentally. "But Constable Angua seems unusually jumpy lately and it's just one week past new moon. Any idea what could be bothering her?"  
  
A thoughtful look crossed the Captain's face. "Now that you mention it, she has seemed a bit tense. I thought perhaps she was still upset over her birthday present."  
  
"Her birthday present? Why, what did you get her? A silver necklace?"  
  
Carrot obediently smiled. "No sir, I baked her a cake." The response held just a hint of pride that suggested many floury hours of struggle.  
  
"So why would she be upset with that?"  
  
"She bit it."  
  
"Ah." Vimes had experienced small cases of culture clash before (the bigger ones were usually called wars). In Ankh-Morpork, surprisingly, it didn't seem to be a huge problem, despite the mishmash of humans, dwarves, trolls, undead, and non-living that made up its citizenry. In fact, the different cultures ran so close together that the narrower-minded and louder-mouthed citizens were generally weeded out by natural selection**. However, the difficulties inherent in a match between a human raised among dwarves and a werewolf raised among, well, werewolves, were too much for his imagination. He knew very little of how their relationship worked beyond the fact that it apparently did.  
  
Naturally there were always some kinks. Evidently Angua's volunteer work at the Battle Bread Museum hadn't provided her with an adequate distrust of baked goods, but he was willing to bet that after this she'd never again bite at what she couldn't chew. Still, it seemed a somewhat petty thing to have provoked such a response. "She still feeling it?"  
  
"No sir, in fact, we got her back on solids on Monday." Carrot beamed with the optimism of one who is sure that given time and a little education, forged loaves will be all the rage.  
  
He leaned back further in his chair. "Somehow, I don't think that's it. You're sure you didn't forget anything? Maybe you had a disagreement?" He was at a loss when tackling a mystery that didn't involve a dead body, somewhere. He preferred to think that this one didn't.  
  
"Not that I'm aware, sir."  
  
He sighed. "Very well, then, you're dismissed." Carrot saluted, and went out the door, closing it softly behind him.  
  
It would've saved the Commander at least four cigars if he'd heard what Carrot said softly at the bottom of the stairs, as he looked at one empty desk in particular. "I did ask her to marry me, though."  
  
* He found it hard to arrest.  
  
** e.g., a brief but unpleasant encounter in a dark alley.  
  
................................ 


	2. Targeted

Hey folks. Thanks for the encouragement. =) It is to me what pencils are to the Eater of Pencils, what socks are to the Small Snuffly Devourer of Socks.  
  
........  
  
It is often said* that the very walls have ears**, and that a secret is best left in the heart. Carrot's quiet words did not reach the Commander as he sat wreathed in a scowl and cigar smoke in his office. Someone, however, was listening.  
  
In Dunmanifestin, high home of the gods, white hands rubbed together in glee. "Come look at this!"  
  
Elegance glided greenly over. "Yes?"  
  
He pointed. "See?"  
  
The Lady peered through the clouds. "The red-haired one?"  
  
"Yes! Do you know him?"  
  
She smiled. "Quite well."  
  
"Ah, you always did have a soft spot for the underdog."  
  
"Oh, he's not an underdog, though some of his friends might be. That Commander, for instance. Or the rest of them."  
  
Thin nostrils dilated. "The rest of them? They aren't even the fleas on the underdog. Honestly, sometimes I don't know why you bother."  
  
"I could say the same to you."  
  
"Well, it all has to balance out somewhere, doesn't it? Now, tell me."  
  
"Yes?"  
  
His aristocratic lips pressed into a smirk. "Is he lucky at cards?"  
  
Eyes of purest emerald stared back into his. Say what you would, there were those of whom the Lady was fonder. He was good for the stories, and proper in his place. Yet he often found ways to make them curse her name. "Let us say.he makes his own luck."  
  
The smirk widened like a pregnant pause. It promised mischief, with a double your money back guarantee if it didn't deliver. "Fair enough for me."  
  
He stood up and stretched lazily. "I'm off, then."  
  
"Where are you going?"  
  
He ran a slim finger over the shaft of his bow, lovingly. "Don't you know? I'm one of the few gods who can enter his kingdom, after all. Not even Fate can go there." He laughed, and the sound was golden and make you think of spring, except that when it cut off the edge was razor sharp. "Ah, but they're droll, these humans. And I do so love a good tragedy."  
  
And with that, he spread his wings and flew from sight.  
  
*usually by persons wary of black helicopters  
  
** This was true in the Patrician's Palace, where if you assumed the paper clips had ears you would be half-right. (They also had eyes.)  
  
........  
  
Space-Time is a concept that remains difficult to grasp for most minds. In fact, some of us struggle with just the first half of it. There is a theory* that since all life developed from amoebas, and amoebas are two- dimensional, we're not really meant to be good at this whole depth perception thing. Nevertheless, most folks can deal with the idea that Space is three-dimensional and Time flows forward at the same rate every where in it.  
  
As it so happens, both of these ideas are wrong. Space has more holes than lacy Swiss cheese and more chunky bits than the milk you find buried in the back of the refrigerator. And Time can flow fast, slow, forward, backward, and in circles. But as even gods tend to go cross-eyed when they think too hard about this (granted, a well-placed gnat can have the same effect), patting yourself on the back for having discovered perspective and knowing you were born after your mum is perfectly kosher.  
  
Some very talented minds, the kind that come single-file over the centuries, can handle the idea that Time really is like a river.+ A river that can be diverted, dammed, or bridged. Most of these minds belong to bald heads gently sipping green tea with yak butter, and only focus on events on the Disc when necessary to prevent the reckless destruction-or tasteless construction-of the History of Mankind.++  
  
However, there is one mind for whom the universe is but a rubber sheet, and if he doesn't peek under it, that doesn't mean he doesn't know what's there.  
  
At the moment, this mind was deeply absorbed in pondering a matter of the utmost gravity.  
  
ALBERT?  
  
"Yes, master?"  
  
DOES THIS ROBE MAKE ME LOOK TOO THIN?  
  
Albert sighed. "No master, it's a classic. You can't beat black for that."  
  
LAST NIGHT A TAILOR WAS CLUBBED TO DEATH BY SOMEONE WHOSE ALTERED SUIT CAME UP TO HIS ANKLES. HE TOLD ME THAT BLACK IS SUPPOSED TO MAKE YOU LOOK-  
  
"Begging your pardon, master, but a seven-foot skeleton isn't going to be winning body-building competitions. Now, shouldn't you be reading the runes or harvesting souls or something like that?"  
  
If it were possible for a skull to sniff, Death of Discworld did it. He had a remarkable talent for expression, given that he had no lips or eyebrows, but then again he had had century upon century to refine his technique.  
  
SOMETIMES I FEEL SURE THAT YOU ARE BEING SARCASTIC. TIME, AS YOU KNOW, IS NOT MY CONCERN. I AM ITS CONCERN, IN A RESPECT.  
  
"That's as may be, master, but-  
  
AND YOU KNOW THAT IT IS VITAL THAT I LOOK THE PART. CAN'T HAVE ANYONE LAUGHING IN THE FACE OF DEATH, NOW CAN WE?  
  
"I doubt anyone would."  
  
YOU'D BE SURPRISED. THEY CERTAINLY WERE.  
  
"The robe is fine," Albert said patiently, "It has been for a few centuries and will probably be for another few. People haven't got that much imagination and frankly no one wants you in color, though I hear them on the Counterweight Continent has got you wearing white instead."  
  
It was times like these that being the manservant of Death was trying. It wasn't that Death wasn't good at his job. On the contrary, he was fantastic at being Death. It was being human that he was lousy at. But for some reason, he kept trying. Albert thought he could understand. Having gone through it himself, he knew that life was overrated but terribly habit-forming.  
  
Death stopped. Albert flinched. Until he'd seen the master do this, he'd never realized how much everything else moved. Living things had a breath, a pulse, a heartbeat. Even non-living things were always changing, if slowly-shifting of the tectonic plates, the wearing away of the mountain, the grind of the earth pressing down on itself far below. But when Death stopped, he stopped. A wind would have better sense than to try and blow through him, though no winds blew in this place. But even on the Disc, the breeze left his robes strictly alone.  
  
Very slowly, the skull turned toward the wall, as if it were looking through it and into another room.  
  
SOMETHING IS WRONG.  
  
"What? Here?"  
  
NOT HERE. NOW.  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
I WILL NEED TO COLLECT SOMEONE SOON.  
  
"What's wrong with that?"  
  
HE'S NOT SUPPOSED TO DIE.  
  
* promulgated by Ponder Stibbons of UU**  
  
** who tended to be the last picked for softball in primary school.  
  
+ Leonard of Quirm in fact had one of these minds, but he was usually too busy drawing to notice.  
  
++ Meaning, when they see fit to meddle.  
  
............  
  
Yes, short, sorry. Bleargh, cannot think of how to start part 3. Worth hanging on that long, guys? What do you think? Any ideas who the God is? 


	3. Break In, Break Out

Damn, for a copy of Men at Arms, or Guards! Guards! To reference his spelling.  
  
..........  
  
Deareste Mum and Dad,  
  
I am quite well and, the weather here continues fine. I hope you will be happy to hear, that the Patrisian has spoken well of me. Comander Vimes told me that he said "I see he has not lost any of his spirrit," this is in regards to a small incident of the troll gangs. Do notte worry no one was hurt very badly. Except for three trolls but Detritus says that was an axident. How is Lode 14 holding out? Did you find higher grade ore in the vein under the shale? I have found on, the Street of Cuning Artifisers a smith from Uberwald. He has good wares and I will buy you both new pickaxes for when I come to visit. Miss you and hope everyones helth is strong, ask Aunt Bonny if her back still ailes her.  
  
Love From Your Son,  
  
Carrot  
  
PS: I have asked Angua to marry me but, she needed time so I will let you know how it goes.  
  
Love Again,  
  
Carrot  
  
.........  
  
Man often fails to understand the power of myth. At the heart of every myth, every legend, is a small kernel of truth. Often that truth may not be palatable. So it is covered like a pearl, in shiny coats of lies, until it becomes smooth enough to the mind.  
  
And after a while, the myth creates its own truth.  
  
Belief is a strong power. Belief on the Disc, where the presence of raw magic makes the dawn ooze like lemon jelly, is even stronger.  
  
Most believe that Death's kingdom is impregnable.  
  
There is a myth which says that's wrong.  
  
True, the myth did not say the attempt was successful.  
  
But it did say that it might have been.  
  
Somewhere, a shape slipped away, breathless with success and glee. He rubbed callused fingers in a habitual gesture, and where his fingers met there was a dry, gritty substance between them. He raised it to his eyes and examined it with a detached curiosity, then with one deep breath blew it off. His smile was the kind you see on the face of a child who goes around frying ants with the magnifying glass you bought him for Christmas. And on silent wings he flew back, eager to see the damage he'd done.  
  
* Experience has shown that many of the gods are near-sighted, and are usually too busy fighting amongst themselves (and the Ice Giants) to pay mere mortals much attention. For which mortals should be profoundly grateful. ...............  
  
"Master, what's wrong?" Albert panted as he sprinted* after the receding Death. Death never seemed to move any faster than a walk, and yet could close distances in a way that made your eyes water. It had something to do with the way he shifted the ground underneath him, Albert decided.  
  
He sometimes thought, especially when his joints acted up, how nice it would be to be able to walk through walls and manipulate matter freely. It was one thing to know that the restrictions of the material world were not absolute, and another not to give a hoot about them. It wasn't so much a question of learning the trick as it was of unlearning the thoughts that stopped you from doing it.  
  
Most humans are brought up knowing that they cannot walk through walls.  
  
So it was what passed for a minute or two before he found himself in the hallway, just short of the open door. Death was standing in the middle of the room, surrounded by the sibilant sound of millions of grains of sand falling softly on billions of others. His back was to Albert, but something about the posture, perhaps the way he gripped the scythe, caused Albert to stop in the doorway.  
  
WE HAVE HAD AN INTRUDER.  
  
"What?!" He gaped like a bird out of the air.** "But that's impossible!"  
  
NO. IT IS NOT. THERE ARE WAYS FOR EVEN MORTALS TO STUMBLE INTO THIS PLACE. THIS, YOU OF ALL PEOPLE SHOULD KNOW. AND THE ONE WHO CAME HERE WAS NOT A MORTAL.  
  
Suddenly, the susurration of sand seemed a lot less soothing. He rubbed his knuckles slowly and thought of his nineteen seconds, the way a traveler in the desert thinks of the last ounce in his flask. "How do you know?"  
  
Slowly, the black cowl turned to face him. A long black sleeve unfolded, and sitting on the bones of Death's hand was a small, gold hourglass.  
  
It was leaking.  
  
* Or rather, hobbled somewhat quickly. At his time of life (hundreds of years after the beginning and just nineteen seconds away from the end) he found that going slow got him there just the same, and less painfully. In the House of Death there was always enough time. There, Time stopped and stretched.  
  
** The Yawning Bird of the Zubian Desert hunts its prey by lying down on the hot sands until something small and stupid enough wanders into its mouth. Hence the expression.  
  
.........  
  
Angua often wondered how humans could stand to be in one shape all the time. Sometimes she wondered how humans could stand to be humans at all. It wasn't just the blindness that came with not being able to smell, or the frustration of not being able to run with the proper number of legs. It was the horrible complexity of the mind that got to her.  
  
Nor did complexity necessary equal intelligence. As far as she could see, humans did more stupid things than any other species she'd seen * They just did them for more complicated reasons.  
  
All in all, it was an immense relief to be able to shed her superior mind (and her breastplate) now and then and reduce herself to a set of instincts with a good nose.  
  
Unfortunately, some of those instincts had been bred in the days when Man huddled in circles around fires with their backs to the dark. One of her ancestors had stepped into that firelight and accepted a contract to protect what it stood for. That step had left a stamp in her genetic code, like footprints in wet cement.  
  
It meant that there was One whom you could never bite, could never betray.  
  
So even now, running faster than any man could run through the moonlit fields of Sto Helit, she wasn't free.  
  
Finally, on the edge of the rustling darkness that marked the end of the plains and the beginning of the woods, she came to a stop, tongue hanging over her teeth as she panted in great gulps. The sound was ragged in the night. It was easier not to think when you had to concentrate on filling your lungs with air. How far had she come? The woods beckoned her with its quiet pulse of life, the insect noises and pine needles underfoot. She didn't belong in the city.  
  
But he did. And in a way, the city belonged to him.  
  
She sat on her haunches and sniffed. Yes, to the north there was the damp, earthy scent of running water. Loping towards it, she suddenly felt a strange prickling between her shoulder blades that ran lightly down her spine, the way a poisonous spider runs over your skin. It was barely there and yet left her shuddering with revulsion. Her hackles rose and she went on alert, looking for what had tripped the alarm wire of her subconscious.  
  
The trees stood demurely in the windless hush. Not so much as a patch of moonlight flickered.  
  
And then she knew, the way her ancestor had known when a tiger was on the prowl for two-legged prey.  
  
It had taken her half the night to run from the City Gates to where she was.  
  
It took her only two hours to get back, but they felt like two years.  
  
* She'd never seen the Cliff-Leaping Rats of Quirm. Few people had, since there were few of them left.  
  
Hooo, boy, I can feel that this is going to be a whopper of a fanfic. The problem with monumental endeavors is that you tend to give up on them. I've got a good feel for where this is heading. Now if I can just get there.. 


	4. Man and Wolf

Albert stared at the timer. It looked ordinary enough at first glance, if on the larger side. It was only on closer inspection that you noticed that the bases were made of very smooth steel, and that the nameplate seemed to be not brass, but gold. At the moment, though, the most obvious feature was the long crack in the top bulb, through which flowed a deceptively thin stream. At that rate, his inner wizard calculated, years had to be vanishing like cookies from a jar guarded by hungry six-year olds.  
  
Poor bugger, his inner human said quietly. Even as he watched he could see the level of sand sinking towards the neck.  
  
"What are you going to do about it, master?"  
  
He looked at it in stupefaction, feeling a chill horror at the thought of someone tampering with his own time. Glass was, after all, fragile. Just a slight push would do it.  
  
LET ME SEE.  
  
Bone fingers* tapped the side of the timer, with a sound like the clinking of wineglasses. The whole thing glowed faintly blue for a second, then abruptly went out. Sand continued to spurt from its side. Death stiffened.  
  
AS I THOUGHT.  
  
Without another word, Death strode out of the Long Room, cradling the timer in a voluminous fold of robe. It was hard to keep up with a seven-foot skeleton with his own frame of relativity at the best of times, but now Albert barely had time to sigh before he saw the door to the study open. "Never a peaceful decade, is there," he muttered and resigned himself for another arthritic trudge.  
  
He got there in time to see Death holding up the timer and, for a skull, doing an amazingly good squint. The sand had stopped falling-at least, out of the timer. Inside, the little grains slid and tumbled their way down, seemingly unaware that they had lost a few million of their comrades.  
  
"How did you fix it?"  
  
SCOTCH TAPE.  
  
And lo, there was a neat strip running over the splintery crack, with another strip perpendicular to it on top. Albert examined it thoughtfully. "A neat job, master."  
  
THANK YOU.  
  
"It'll never hold though."  
  
THIS IS ONLY A TEMPORARY MEASURE.  
  
"Where did you get it?" he asked curiously. Death's desk, he knew, had no working drawers, and even if it had them, he could hardly imagine their contents to be so, well, deskish.  
  
Insomuch as a seven-foot skeleton can look like a perambulating ball of wool, Death was looking sheepish.  
  
ERM.FROM SUSAN.  
  
"What, she gave it to you?"  
  
.NOT EXACTLY. YOU SEE, I VISITED HER CLASSROOM, AND THERE WAS THIS CABINET WHICH EVERYONE SEEMED TO BE VERY FOND OF. SMALL WONDER, TOO.  
  
Albert shook his head. "You nicked it? From Miss Susan? I hope you were sly about it, then."  
  
I WAS ONLY BORROWING, Death protested. Albert could've sworn the capitals felt shorter than usual. Possibly Death was imagining his granddaughter's stare. BESIDES, I NEEDED SOMETHING TO PUT THE PICTURES UP.  
  
"Never mind that, master, who did it? And who did they do it to, if you catch my meaning?"  
  
WHOM, Death said absently, TO WHOM DID THEY DO IT. ALTHOUGH TO WHOM DID HE DO IT WOULD BE MORE ACCURATE.  
  
By virtue of long service, Albert did NOT roll his eyes. Instead, he asked, "Yes, to WHOM did they-he-do it? You mean you know who it was?"  
  
OH YES, said Death. HE LEFT THIS BEHIND.  
  
From his other, the one not holding the timer, he produced a single, golden arrowhead.  
  
* Saying a skeleton's fingers are bony is like saying a boulder is rock- hard. When describing an anthropomorphism it is possible to be more precise.  
  
.............  
  
Strangely enough, as she'd run the sense of urgency had faded. It felt as if some terrible thing had begun to happen, but then just as suddenly had stopped. Like a man who steps over a cliff and hardly has time to consider his error before he finds himself hanging by his trousers from a branch, the danger was still there, but held off. If anything, it made Angua even more nervous.  
  
Her muscles bunched painfully as she made her way to the city, and she knew she'd be feeling drained as a tub when the adrenaline died down. Wolves were build for distance, not speed. You didn't have to outrun something if there were eight of you chasing it.  
  
Home first, the two-legged part of her insisted in the back of her brain. You can't show up at the Watch like this. You need a tongue that talks. And some underwear wouldn't hurt.  
  
The rest of her growled, But He's at the Watch House. *  
  
And so will be whoever else is on duty tonight, said that small bit firmly, We don't want a repeat of that nonsense with the curtains, do we? Go get yourself some clothes.  
  
She snarled silently and leapt in the direction of her room.  
  
Sometimes it paid to throw Civilization a bone.  
  
She wasn't in the mood to make it a big one, though. Tossing a shirt on almost before she had fingers, she grabbed at things in the dark and swore. She'd be damned if she was going to color-coordinate.  
  
In four and a half minutes she nearly at the Watch House. A light was on inside and the building was quiet. If there was trouble, she couldn't tell from the street. His trail was hanging in the air, not fresh, but still there. Was it going in or out?  
  
Her feet slapped up the steps. She threw open the door and asked, "The Captain, where is he?"  
  
At the front desk a tousled head (one of the newer recruits, her memory supplied) jerked up in surprise, blinking sleepy eyes. "Whaa? Whoo?" it blurted and peered back at her. "Con-constable Angua? Is that you?"  
  
"Never mind who I am, where did the Captain go?"  
  
"Captain Carrot? I just sent him home, miss. He said he wasn't feeling well."  
  
Carrot? Sick? Her mind skidded in its tracks and did a hairpin turn.  
  
A flu? A stroke? Cancer? It didn't seem possible. She'd never so much as heard him sneeze before. And surely she wouldn't have felt...whatever it was she'd felt if he'd just caught a cold. Would she?  
  
"How did he look? Was he in pain? Did it seem serious? Did you summon a doctor?"  
  
The rookie's eyes widened in alarm. "Ma'am? Is there something wrong? Is he ok?"  
  
"I don't know, I'm trying to find out," she snapped at him. "Just answer the questions." She took a small, tight breath.  
  
Control, control, remember to live up to your opposable thumbs.  
  
"Lance-Constable..."  
  
"Piper, ma'am."  
  
"Lance-Constable Piper, describe what happened and why the Captain left his post, please."  
  
Piper snapped alert, spine suddenly upright in the manner of one who has just realized that he has been caught sleeping at his post by a superior. His face set in a mask of concentration as he struggled to recall in sufficient detail what was obviously a very important incident to the agitated woman before him.  
  
"Um, well, about..." he flicked his eyes to the clock on the wall, "...two hours ago the Captain said he wasn't feeling really well, and I looked and his face looked awfully pale. Like, really pale. Like someone'd just stepped on his grave." Catching sight of Angua's expression out of the corner of his eye, he hastily added, "But, not so pale that it looked serious. Ma'am."  
  
"Go on," she said evenly.  
  
"Well, I asked him if he was feeling alright, and he said no, not really, but he was sure it'd pass, so I got him a glass of water and asked if he wanted me to go fetch a doctor, and he said no, he'd be fine, and then I asked him if he had any shooting pains in his arms because my uncle went that way, it was awfully quick and everyone thought he was too young, at forty-two."  
  
He gasped a little at the very end of the sentence, then went on, "But about half an hour ago he said he was feeling a little tired and he asked if I'd mind staying a bit beyond my shift, and I said no, of course not since I could see he was still looking a bit pale, so I told him to go home and get some rest. I offered to go with him but he said he'd make it on his own alright and someone had to stay at the House, and ma'am, did something happen to the Captain?"  
  
The last words tripped over each other on their way out. Lance-Constable Piper was really very worried. He was young, and with his round cheeks, slightly snub nose and wide green eyes looked even younger. Right now his anxious stare made Angua think of a puppy watching the whole family drive away. So despite the fact that her stomach felt like it'd fallen through her intestines to her feet, she made an effort to reassure him.  
  
"Don't worry, I'm sure he's fine," she said gently. "Carrot can take care of himself," she added, mostly to and for herself. "I'll just be going to check up on him."  
  
She went through the streets dazedly, scenarious flipping through her head like a slide show, each more farfetched than the last. She prayed it wasn't a stroke. ** Surely that couldn't be it, she thought, he was young, wasn't he? He ate vegetables and everyone said that rat was really very lean, practically like chicken. But it couldn't be anything slow and wasting or she'd have smelled it on him and he'd seemed fine this morning...  
  
Deep inside her fear cleared its throat and announced, Carrot doesn't leave early for just anything. He must be really, really sick.  
  
She clenched her jaw, told her fear to shove itself someplace impolite and followed Carrot's trail. It led to his room, sure enough. His door was unlocked, as usual. He never mentioned it, but he'd left it that way since the time he'd found her scratching frantically outside. He was in bed, she saw instantly, and she felt slightly relieved. Maybe he'd just been tired, after all. She went to his side and scrutinized him anxiously. He was breathing a little too quietly, a little too slowly.  
  
"Carrot," she whispered. "Carrot, wake up."  
  
HE WILL NOT. NOT YET.  
  
She whirled around so fast that her kidneys clanged. "Who's there?!"  
  
The tall stranger said nothing. Her brain scurried, putting together bits of information like "You didn't smell or hear him coming" and "Gosh, he's awfully thin," and "Is it me or does he have burning blue lights for eyes?"  
  
"YOU!"  
  
ME.  
  
"You can't have him," she snarled. And changed. A growl rumbled out of her chest, a deep growl that said, You might be Death, but take one step near the bed and I'll make you remember what wolves do with bones.  
  
Death held up a hand. As a rule he was a bit dubious about the undead. They tended to create hiccups in the paperwork. But in this case he was relieved to deal with someone whose first reaction to him wasn't a dead-- haha--faint.  
  
I DO NOT COME TO COLLECT HIM.  
  
Good, said Angua's bared fangs.  
  
YET, Death added out of a sense of literal honesty.  
  
Angua tensed to spring.  
  
He added somewhat hastily, DO NOT WORRY. HE IS MERELY UNCONSCIOUS AT THE MOMENT.  
  
She changed. There were too many damn questions and she was willing to bet Death didn't have a sex drive. Grabbing at the remains of the shirt, and then Carrot's blanket when those didn't suffice, she demanded, "Why is he like this? What happened?"  
  
YOU KNOW HOW GREAT SHOCKS CAN TAKE YEARS OFF OF YOUR LIFE?  
  
"Yes..."  
  
TAKING YEARS OFF OF YOUR LIFE CAN REALLY SHOCK YOU, TOO. AND HE'S JUST LOST ABOUT SIXTY FIVE.  
  
"What?? How could that happen? How much has he got left?"  
  
SOMEONE BROKE HIS TIMER. AND ABOUT A WEEK.  
  
Her mouth went dry, but comprehension refused to dawn. "Broke...his timer?"  
  
Death held forth the taped-up timer. She could see the opaque, shattery pattern of the crack underneath the patch.  
  
"Who did it?" Her voice was shaky with fear, rage, and wild uncertainty. "What can I do?"  
  
Don't say nothing, she pleaded internally. Because if he did, she truly didn't know what she would do.  
  
I WILL TELL YOU.  
  
* Carrot was almost always on duty. He'd worked out a way to do day and night shifts by dint of sleeping in those hours that not even hardcore insomniacs and Microsoft programmers knew existed.  
  
** Her grandfather had gone that way. The stroke itself probably wouldn't have killed him (permanently, anyway) except that he'd been chasing a moose at the same time. The moose had been quite angry.  
  
Bloody long chapter, eh? Finally, the plot actually begins to move. I'm still working out future developments in my head, so no updates for a while. Feedback speeds me up though! *wink wink, nudge nudge* Thanks for sticking with me so far, Gaia, Cadi, Lunar, and folks =) 


	5. Pickle Piper

And here we go, on with this tale which is surely spinning itself--for I know I'm not behind it.  
  
I apologize for the crappy draft quality. I'm not bothering to edit this at all, and rushing through it (as is evinced by the lousy prose at the end of chapter 4 *sheepish*) to boot. So thanks for your patience and tolerance, and let me know if you're still interested.  
  
.................................  
  
Angua had known fear. Werewolves, though immortal in a limited sense, were not insensible to pain and could be killed by the cold burn of silver, or the hot burn of fire. Even her few years in the Watch had put her in situations which had inspired dread. She still woke gasping, some nights, from dreams of walking nose-first into Foul Ole Ron.  
  
And of course, since meeting Carrot, she'd learned a new type of fear altogether.  
  
But this wasn't fear. Fear was a cold trickle down your spine, a lump in your gut. Fear was when you wanted to back away and hope something wouldn't happen. This wasn't like that at all. This was more like an ocean that surged in and closed over your head. This was something that sapped the will and turned the heart to so much dust. This was the kind of feeling that made you want to bury yourself not under the headcovers, but under six good feet of dirt. Eight, if the ground were soft enough.  
  
This was worse.  
  
This was despair.  
  
And finally, adrenaline began to unwind itself from her bones. She could feel the past ten hours waiting overhead like an avenging meteor, waiting to crash down and smash her into insensibility. She wanted to make one last struggle to shuffle it into some kind of sense. Since she'd felt the first prickle of apprehension on the plains of Sto-Lat, she'd been straining to see which way the fingers of Fate were pointing. But before she could do more than conjure up Carrot's face, she'd fallen asleep.  
  
Beside her, Lance-Constable Piper drew his cloak gently over her. It was still damp from the fog of the streets.  
  
He'd slept at least a few hours more than she had and, while considerably upset by the recent turn of events, was not quite so personally affected. Carrot, to him, was a figure of glory, a superior in the true sense of the word. It was watching Carrot walking his beat, smiling and nodding to everyone in his path, that had inspired him to join the Watch.  
  
It wasn't just that he smiled and nodded. This was not totally unique; there were several amiable loonies who walked the streets doing pretty much the same thing*--Daft Billy, the fishmonger's son, for example. It was that everyone smiled and nodded back, or at least grunted, which for them was as good as a song and dance.  
  
And the way he saved little old ladies from runaway carts! It was enough to make any decent upstanding young lad, of Suitable Age and looking for a little Excitement, want to bang on the Watch House door.  
  
There was no question, Captain Carrot was the kind of man you looked up to. You called him a Hero, but only behind his back, because if you said it to his face it broke out into a wide, bemused smile and said What, me? Just a copper, like the rest of the boys, in a voice that indicated total faith in every word.  
  
Still, as special as Captain Carrot was to him, he was obviously a lot more special to Constable Angua. Piper blushed as he thought of what he'd been told about the two of them. Not that he'd been told much; rumors (especially that kind) seemed to die away before the Captain's seeming ignorance. He had a way of making you feel like both a dirty rat for saying things behind his back and a dead one because he'd surely heard you.  
  
When he thought about it, it was amazing how much respect the Captain generated, considering how universally he was held as a Nice Guy. It must be the uniform, Piper thought. It was the sort of thing he hoped to pick up himself over time, although so far the only thing he'd managed to pick up from the Watch was a middling-bad case of head lice.  
  
You couldn't deny that he'd already had some Excitement, though. Granted, the most Exciting part--Practically Staring Death in the Face, the Constable had said--seemed to have happened when he was still back at the Watch House, groggy and bemused. But afterwards, since Constable Angua (please, just call me Angua, she'd said) had dashed back in (wearing a different set of clothes, and a shirt that looked rather too big for her, he'd noticed) it had been quite the night. They'd even found a Clue.  
  
Or rather, she'd said, Someone** had given it to her.  
  
He'd been terribly excited about his first Clue, even if it wasn't quite what he'd imagined. He'd always thought of Clues as, you know, like bloody daggers and footprints and what not.  
  
He'd certainly never thought of them as Scotch tape.  
  
But his disappointment was quick to give way to the zeal of professionalism. He'd seized it and sprinkled it liberally with fingerprint powder, but to his surprise and dismay, had found no prints besides his own. He blushed, recalling the scene, which had gone something like this:  
  
"I'm not surprised," she'd said. Then she'd snatched it back from him and said, "Look, use your brains, Piker--"  
  
"--Piper, ma'am"  
  
"--whatever! Or use your eyes, if you haven't any brains! There's a stamp on the side."  
  
There was. It said, "Grade 3, Frout Academy."  
  
He felt embarassed. Just the other day the Commander himself had been walking and talking with him, and had brought up his eyesight. He held the Commander in considerable awe as well, thought not so much as the Captain. You knew the Commander was a Duke, but he didn't look or act like one, whereas the Captain was just a commoner but looked like a king. Still, he knew the Commander was highly ranked and a friend of the Patrician himself, and he'd been puzzled and concerned when the man had said, "You want to be fixing those eyes, lad. They've got too much gleam in 'em."  
  
And now here was Con--Angua telling him to look more carefully. His ears reddened. "There's no need to be like that about it, ma'am," he mumbled, then wished he hadn't.  
  
"Like that?" she growled. "Like what?" Her voice climbed rapidly into the pitch reserved especially for Hysterial Females(+), then sat there. "This has not been a good night, ok? One minute I'm out on a run, the next I find out that someone's just gone and ripped off a whole lifetime from my fiance, only he doesn't know he's my fiance because I was going to turn him down on account of being a werewolf! Death himself says he's coming to take him away and all I have to guide me is this stupid roll of tape and you sit there telling me not to be like that?? What should I be like, then??"  
  
His eyes, already round, became roughly the size and shape of golfballs. His vision may have been defective, but there was nothing wrong with his ears.  
  
Angua stopped shouting and looked at him. Then she replayed the last few lines in her head. "Oh, shit," she said with some feeling, and then buried her face in her hands. She wanted to howl with frustration, and was terribly afraid that she would. Not that it would make much difference, now.  
  
After a pause just sufficiently long enough to be awkward, he said, "Don't worry, ma'am. I won't tell anyone."  
  
She looked up, not certain whether to thank him or stare at him in disbelief.  
  
"On one condition," he added.  
  
The howl nearly came out then. She had to bite her tongue to catch it.  
  
He looked her straight in the eyes, and said, "Take me with you."  
  
She lowered her eyes, as if considering the idea, then raised them, slowly, in a way which reminded Piper of every werewolf story he'd ever heard. Particularly the ones involving gruesome deaths. "And what makes you think I won't just kill you and hide the body so no one will ever know?" she asked, in a voice that was altogether too calm.  
  
Parts of him wanted to run away very fast (preferable into a suitably large jewelry store) after hearing that , but he forced himself to respond. To his pride and considerable surprise, his voice was almost steady. "Because you're an officer of the Watch. Ma'am."  
  
A heartbeat passed, or would've, if his heart had been beating. Then she blinked, and almost smiled. He began to breathe again.  
  
"Do people ever tell you you're cleverer than you look?" she asked.  
  
"Oh yes, ma'am. All the time."  
  
* Only smelling worse. ** Somehow she managed to convey the capital S. + It works sort of like a dog whistle, only on men.  
  
......................................  
  
That had been almost six hours ago. They'd spent the time in between finding where Frout Academy was located. It was hard going, since there were few people around at this time of night. Those who were up mostly hadn't even been to the third grade, let alone knew remember where it was located. Finally, they turned up an owner of a small take-out place ("Real Agatean Cuisine!! Open 24-7!! Free eggroll with two order of fried rice!") who said his daughter was a student of the Academy.  
  
Piper looked around the shop. It was so small that it could have been sub- let as a telephone booth. Two dingy chairs, covered in a fabric that could only be described as "stained," faced the menu. The "Specials of the Day" (and by the look of them, it had been a very long day) were tacked to the wall in straggling letters. A bunch of characters that made his eyes ache were scribbled beside them, and somehow made the letters beside them look positively scrawny in comparison. The place smelled of old grease, and was lit by the kind of candles that flicker even in the absence of wind. The owner reminded Piper of a walnut--small, brown and wrinkled.  
  
"Your daughter goes to the Academy?" he asked. In his experience, anything that called itself an Academy wasn't generally cheap. Academies believed in quality, not quantity--except when it came to tuition.  
  
"Yes, that why I work 24-7. You want to know where school is?" He peered at them through round, smudged eyeglasses.  
  
"That would be helpful of you," Angua said.  
  
"No problem. You want fried rice with that?"  
  
............................................  
  
The school turned out to be in the northern part of town in a fairly well- to-do district, which was normal for an academy. It also tried hard to look friendly, which was not.  
  
Instead of the normal, exclusive wrought-iron gates which were virtually the earmark of every institution for talented* youngsters in Ankh-Morpork, it had a white-washed wooden gate and--Piper stared--what appeared to be a yellow brick road leading to the front door of the main office. The walls were of brick, but far from being crumbling, they were a defiantly cheerful red. There was no ivy, but plenty of marigolds.  
  
On a sign above the door, it said "LEARNING THROUGH PLAY--SUCCESS THE FROUT WAY"  
  
"Gosh," said Piper. "I bet they don't whack you with a ruler for getting your sums wrong here."  
  
Angua ignored him, and marched up to the knocker. No one replied, even after a second try.  
  
"Ma'am?" Piper ventured. "I don't think anyone's in yet. It's only just past six."  
  
She stared at the door a little longer, as if by the sheer force of her gaze she could summon a reply. Finally, she turned away with a sigh. "I suppose you're right. We'll just have to wait for a while."  
  
He sat down on a low wall encircling a proud oak tree. It was hard to get trees taller than a foot in the city. Trees needed water, and the kind of liquid that passed for water in Ankh-Morpork was generally not conducive to keeping trees green, although it was certainly capable of turning other things green. ** Piper was impressed. Clearly this was a school with funds, or else a very talented staff, which usually took funds.  
  
They had at least an hour before anyone would be along. Even little kids, who weren't old enough to know that mornings were completely unnatural and to be avoided at all costs, wouldn't be bouncing out of bed until after dawn. The fog was lifting, but the air was still chill. He pulled his knees up and looked at Angua, who was pacing.  
  
Suddenly, she stopped directly in front of him, carefully avoiding his gaze. "Well, Lance-Constable, now you know something about me."  
  
"Yes ma'am."  
  
"And you understand why I'd prefer for that knowledge not to be spread around."  
  
"Oh yes, ma'am." He'd always been raised as an open-minded lad, and the Watch in general could not afford to be particularly choosy in its tastes. But thinking about the kinds of things he'd heard on the force, the rumors and speculations and generalizations made with only a token stab at the truth, he did understand.  
  
"Well," she said, still not looking at him. "Suppose you tell me something about yourself then, to balance it out."  
  
"Ma'am?" He was slightly unsure. "Um, if you're asking..."  
  
"No, I know you're not a werewolf," she said, with a half-smile. "I just meant, well, things. Like where you're from. How many brothers and sisters you have. That sort of thing."  
  
"Oh. Let's see. Um, I guess I could start with my name. If you don't mind, ma'am, maybe you could just call me that instead? Lance-Constable being kind of a mouthful and all."  
  
"Why not," she sighed. "But I can't in front of other people, or Carr--the Captain would say I wasn't following the rules."  
  
"Big on the rules, is he?"  
  
"Very, but only the right ones, so it's ok."  
  
He thought on that for a moment, then stuck out his hand. "Pickle, ma'am, and pleased to meet you."  
  
Surprised, she took it. "Pickle? Like the relish?"  
  
"Well, yes, it's a sort of nickname. Short for Piccolo." (Aki: Please, if you are envisioning anyone from Dragonball Z right now, DON'T.)  
  
"Piccolo," she repeated.  
  
"My family makes wind instruments, has for generations. It's in our name, see, Piper."  
  
Piper Woodwinds. She thought she could remember the shop, a clean little corner near the Street of Cunning Artificers. Carrot had commented on it once. A fine example of old-fashioned craftsmanship, he'd said. So that's where Piper--Pickle--was from. She'd never known, although Carrot surely did. She felt her heart clench and turned her attention back to Pickle's cheerful chatter.  
  
"My dad named us all after the craft: My oldest brother's Oboe, and my sisters Clarinet (we call her Clare) and Flute, and then the youngest, me."  
  
"Get along well with your siblings?" she said, for the sake of saying something.  
  
"Well, we fight some, but I reckon everyone does. We stick together when it counts, though."  
  
She thought about her own family, which probably wouldn't have stuck together if she'd thrown them into a vat of glue.  
  
"What about yours, miss?"  
  
In a way it was a relief to actually be able to talk to someone about where she'd come from without having to be vague. He listened more thoughtfully and said less stupid things than she'd expected. In fact, it was almost as good as talking to Carrot. Because in Pickle's case you knew that every bit of naivete was completely real, in some senses it was almost better.  
  
Almost.  
  
Overall, the time passed less slowly than she'd feared. Before she knew it Pickle was standing up and gesturing excitedly.  
  
"Look ma'am, someone's coming!"  
  
* A code word, in many cases, for "rich." ** Especially right before they vomited.  
  
.........................................................................  
  
Dammit!! Dammit!!! Move, plot, MOVE!!! But, not too fast, since I still don't quite know where you're moving to. Just don't bowl me over in the process, mmkay?  
  
And woohoo!! New review!! Thanks, LunaNel ^_~ 


	6. Back to School

Sorry for the long pause!!! I've only got two more weeks until school starts, which means I had better get as many bloody updates in now as writerly possible. The problem is, I've got another fandom competing for my attention span, which can hardly stand dividing as it is. *hangs head* Precious little overlap between the two, but it seems that Pratchett's narrative sense of humor was visible to one astute reviewer at least...*grin*  
  
And now, back to the story...  
  
...........................................  
  
A twang sounded that would've made every cat's gut coil tight with dread, had there been any cats around to hear it.* It was followed by sounds that made the twang positively pleasant by comparison. They were to music what an agonizing scream is to the spoken word.  
  
"Can't ANYone shut that boy up?" Blind Io, leader of the gods, grumbled as he sat on his recliner ** with his fingers in his ears.  
  
"Not unless you want to be mooning around for months on end after some old bat who suddenly takes your fancy," said Imbibicus, the new God of Wine. The old one had been dealt an immortal blow by a short-lived but impressively fanatical temperance movement, and finished off by a particularly good barley harvest.  
  
"Who're you calling an old bat?" snapped a grey-eyed goddess with a tendency to squint.  
  
"No one, O Embodiment of Wisdom," the wine god replied smoothly. "At least, no one here. But I wouldn't put it past the young rogue to run down and cart a mortal back here, just to spin out his games."  
  
"O Embodiment of Common Sense, not Wisdom, you young whippersnapper. Wisdom's my sister, the one who still bothers with the ascetic look. But about that curly-haired nuisance, too right you are," she said grumpily. "It makes a body nervous, him allus waving those bow and arrers around. Didn't anyone ever teach that boy not to run with scissors? It's all fun and games until Storm-boy over yon loses an eye."  
  
"It's certainly not fair, him having that kind of power and being such a poo about it," pouted a regional Goddess of Beauty, adjusting her leopard skins. She was pretty in a healthy, natural, robust sense, rather like a ripe apple. (+)  
  
"No, it isn't, but Mankind has a tendency to put the blame for all sorts of suffering on the heart instead of the hormones. Add to that the lyric obsession with metaphors, and bam! you get a god who goes around giving 'heart-piercing pangs' with a longbow."  
  
Beauty shuddered. "Isn't it awful, though, Bibi? Just think, one shot and he could make me fall in love with...well...that awful alligator man!"  
  
Common Sense raised an eyebrow. "Bibi?"  
  
Imbibicus had the grace to blush. "If it's our colleague Offler you mean, I believe he's actually part crocodile."  
  
The grey-haired, grey-eyed goddess shrugged. "Who cares? I wouldn't want to meet either of them in a swamp. She's right, though, s'not right, him muckin' about with their lives like that. He ain't even playing a game. Asked him why he felt compelled to drive people to despair and he said some nonsense about tragedy being the only way to prove Love was great. I told him that any power that got people through marriage and midnight feedings was pretty great in my opinion."  
  
The God of Wine, Particularly the Expensive Sort, sniffed and sipped from the glass that had suddenly materialized in his fingers. "Hmm...yes, they did alright with the claret in Genua, this time," he muttered before going on. "Personally, I don't mind him having his fun, since it certainly does wonders for my following."  
  
He winced, as a particularly sour note curdled upon the air. The non-music had been getting steadily louder. "All the same, I wish they could've kept their dogma straight. All that nonsense about winged hosts and cherubim and suddenly he's stuck with a harp. You'd think that after all those ballads he'd at least have a sense of pitch."  
  
There was a different kind of a twang, an extremely brisk and business- sounding one, and the wineglass shattered out of existence, splashing claret all over the formerly spotless white shirt front. The Pelopian beauty screamed. Sandaled footsteps approached.  
  
"I may be tone-deaf, but I've got excellent hearing," Cupid said to the God of Wine, who was trying to decide between fuming and being badly shaken. "So sorry about the little accident. But it's not as if you had anything to worry about, you're in the company of such lovely ladies!" He snapped his fingers, and a gold-tipped arrow materialized between them. "Can't leave something like this lying around, now can we?" He smiled, a charming, smile, slung his bow over his shoulder, and left.  
  
"Well..." said Common Sense, a little dazed.  
  
"I thought he seemed rather sweet," said Beauty with a simpering smile. "And he's a very good-looking boy."  
  
"My dear, it's medicine that's bitter," snapped the God of Wine, as he examined his hands for shards. "The deadliest of poisons are generally sweet."  
  
* There weren't unless you counted the head of a goddess from Tsort, because a surprising number of deities wear white.  
  
** It was softer than a throne, and what's the good of being a deity if you can't be comfortable?  
  
+ Tragically, the small region that worshipped her immediately converted when they were overrun by a civilization that had already discovered diet food and mascara.  
  
......................................................  
  
Angua looked at the person who had just arrived at the gate. She certainly didn't look like anyone connected with Death. She didn't look like anyone connected with anyone, really.  
  
It was a thin little wisp of a woman, who looked like she had been reincarnated from a mouse and hadn't totally forgotten it. Her hair and clothing were of a dull brown, unflattering and inoffensive, and behind her round spectacles round dark eyes darted nervously. She was, Angua noted, quite young.  
  
"Excuse me...what are you doing inside school grounds?" she quavered.  
  
"We climbed," Pickle said cheerfully, "over the wall. It's quite low on the east side just by the pear trees."  
  
The woman (Was she a teacher? Who else worked at a school? She had never gone to one, as the vogue in Uberwald had been privated tutoring at the time) began to tremble, and took a few small steps back, a prelude to flight. Angua hastily pointed to her badge.  
  
"We're with the Watch, ma'am. Just here on a line of inquiry." There. Hopefully that sounded Official enough to deter any questions and yet firmly on the side of Friendly, Good Copper. Beside her, Pickle nodded.  
  
"Do you know a Ms. Sto Helit? She would be a young woman who teaches here."  
  
The mouse blinked. "Sto...Helit?" she quavered, and then some of the hesitation left her as she began to think. "Oh! You mean Miss Susan," she smiled. When her face wasn't twitching, Angua noted, it wasn't really unattractive.*  
  
"Right, miss. Do you know if she'll be coming in soon? We just wanted to ask her a few questions, then we'll be on our way."  
  
The woman glanced at the clock that hung ostentatiously over the courtyard, to show students exactly how late they were. ** It had bronze hands and Tsortean numerals, and currently read half past six. "Do you know, it's very curious...I've never seen her come in, but class starts at half-past seven and she's always there on the dot."  
  
Pickled yawned massively, then looked abashed. "Sorry...er...it just came on," he mumbled. "Anyhow, Miss...?"  
  
"Oh, I'm just the aide," she said with alarm, "You needn't be so polite."  
  
Pickle did a bit of rapid thinking, and tried again, "Your name, uhh...Not- Miss?"  
  
"Please, just call me Merriam."  
  
Merriam, she thought a little uncharitably, it was a dull brown kind of name. But serviceable, no doubt. "Mis--Merriam, why are you here an hour early?" Pickle asked. Angua rubbed her eyes and contemplated the prospect of waiting another hour. Her muscles were beginning to stiffen in the cool air. Another hour would probably mean the beginning of pain. What it would mean for Carrot, she wasn't sure.  
  
"I'm the aide," she explained, "So I come in early to help set things up. But goodness," her eyes strayed from Angua's disheveled look to Pickle's bleary eyes. "Won't you come in for a cup of tea?"  
  
* After all, mice are rather cute.  
  
** Learning through play or not, punctuality is always acceptable.  
  
.............................................  
  
Angua inhaled the fragrance from her cup, her opinion of Merriam rising with the steam. Whatever the woman's taste in fashion, she certainly knew how to make a cup of tea. "I put a bit of ginger in it," the aide explained, "for extra zip."  
  
"We could certainly do with some, couldn't we," she said wryly. "Sorry to intrude on you like this. It's for--"  
  
"An investigation, I know," Merriam cut in, her eyes wide and sparkling. Angua blinked. She hadn't though the aide capable of interruption. Or sparkling, for that matter. Merriam seemed to realize it herself a moment later, clapping a hand over her mouth and blushing. "I'm so sorry, please go on."  
  
"Well, that was about it," she sighed. "I just have to wait until this Sto- Helit shows up, and ask her a few questions, I suppose." She eyed Merriam thoughtfully. "You wouldn't happen to know anything about her, I suppose?"  
  
The aide sat with her hands folded in her lap, looking down at them nervously. "Nobody knows much about Miss Susan, ma'am."  
  
Angua sat up a little straighter. Inside her another body, temporarily banished from the morphic planes, was lifting its ears. "What do you mean?"  
  
"Just that, ma'am. Nobody asks her much, and she's always there on time, and there just doesn't seem to be much chance to..." she trailed off for a moment, "...get, well, personal. Like ask about her family."  
  
She started when Pickle spoke up. For a moment she'd expected it to be Cheery, whom she was usually partnered with. The Commander had said they worked together well. "Well, Mi--Merriam, what does she do here?"  
  
"Oh, she teaches," said the aide with a hint of awe. "The third grade," she continued, lowering her voice, "The class with Jason." And the awe was no longer just a hint. Then she glanced at a clock and her expression flipped into one of terror. "Oh! It's seven, and I haven't filled the letterboxes yet!"  
  
Pickle rose hastily from his chair. "It's ok, M-Merriam, I'll help you." She rushed around the room, papers and folders zooming into her arms frantically.  
  
"No, it's all right, don't bother," she said, making one final swipe and preparing to totter out the door. She looked at the knob. Impressively, her eyes didn't so much as flicker towards the two of them. Instead, she gritted her teeth, hitched the stack closer to her chin, and reached out. "Oh, but please, won't you come with me?" she added as she stepped out. "I'll show you where Miss Susan's classroom is. It is a bit early, but if you're in a hurry to meet her..." The pause swooped up into a question.  
  
"Yes, of course, thanks so much." They trailed behind her, as the soft click-click of her shoes filled the hall. The walls were pinned with pictures, letters, proud examples of the alphabet, and large cheery signs that proclaimed things like, "THE ROAD TO KNOWLEDGE IS PAVED WITH BOOKS!" Whoever worked here, thought Angua, would have to have either a very strong sense of humor, or almost none at all. She wondered which category Susan belonged to.  
  
She was just squinting at a picture of a what, readjusted for things like proportion and perspective and the proper number of limbs, could have been a black man on a white horse, when Merriam stopped. "Here you are, ma'am." They were just outside of a classroom that looked fairly ordinary, at least at first glance. A second glance revealed that one side of the walls was covered with pictures that said, "What I am Not Afraid of" and appeared to consist mostly of monsters being killed in a number of gruesome ways.  
  
The other wall was also covered in pictures. These were labeled, "What I Am Afraid of." She looked closer. One of the pictures was a mash of red and pink and black and appeared to be labeled, "Jinjevitus." Others held things such as clocks and the scrawled inscription, "Being Late," or in one suprisingly neat script, "Other people."  
  
"I'll be leaving you then, if it's alright," the aide said, looking harrassed.  
  
"Are you sure you don't need help?" Pickle asked, eyeing the stack of papers which almost obscured her nose.  
  
"Well..." she sounded hesistant.  
  
"I'll just take a few off the top for you, if you don't mind," he said gently and promptly shifted most of the stack into his grip. "Now, which way?" Merriam, blushing painfully at his polite gallantry, hurried down the hall with Pickle in her wake. Angua continued her walk around the classroom, which apart from the pictures, held nothing extraordinary. She sniffed. A faint smell of ammonia was in the air.  
  
"Good morning," someone said. She whirled, hand reaching for a sword that currently wasn't there. Even as a human, there were very few who could sneak up on her. Especially those--she did a double-take--wearing high heels.  
  
The speaker was a slim, severe young woman dressed all in black, with her pale blonde hair drawn back tightly in a bun. The hair was, Angua noted, had two streaks of black. It was an unusual look, and abruptly was even more so. The two black locks had begun to wiggle. "Stop that!" their owner snapped, and they quieted down again.  
  
"Miss Susan?" Angua asked, although it hardly seemed necessary.  
  
...................................................................  
  
sorry about the awkward stopping point *wince* i have to go make dinner soon, before mum and dad get home. dear gods, six chapters and i've barely gotten into the plot. perhaps i should abandon this before it becomes another sinkhole of my time o_0;; on the happy side, i hear another discworld book is due this year =) happy, happy joy joy! 


End file.
